


A Fake Mirage

by Vectorsigma3441



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Shattered Glass
Genre: M/M, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-11
Updated: 2012-10-11
Packaged: 2017-11-16 02:05:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/534272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vectorsigma3441/pseuds/Vectorsigma3441
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hound's lucky. He has a fancy way to masturbate. Warnings for self-service, mild depression and angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fake Mirage

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was dreadfully hard to write, hopefully it's turned out somewhat decent. Also, this fic is set loosely in the same verse as my earlier fic "Punishment" and "Overindulgence".

On nights like these, he couldn't help but desire a warm frame next to his, or at least someone to break the silence with companionable talking.

Hound's red optics flashed brightly as he gazed up into the starry night sky, his face expressionless. Small wisps of warmer air escaped from his mouth as he stood in the lonely and desolate landscape, his camouflaged painting making him blend until he wasn't anything but another grayish colored blur to match the rest of the dark and somber colors of the hills.

How many months had he been out in the field without seeing his dear lover?

It wore on him.

He took in a breath of air, and with it the scents on the wind. With medically enhanced senses, he was able to smell the slight acidity - acid rain that had recently fallen - along with the impending cold front that was pushing through. Otherwise, the air was clean, and that meant danger was minimal. For several more minutes he was still, seeing if anything changed. But, once his right pede started to ache the smallest amount from his strained position on the high up cliff face he shifted and turned on his heel.

As he walked, he stepped into a puddle, almost angrily, and it splattered onto his dark colored plating and stuck, the thick rusty brown particulates clinging to his paint, gathering in the scratches and cuts on his legs. But, it hardly mattered. He wasn't the epitome of cleanliness, nor had he had the chance to clean since being deployed from Iacon.

Oh, Mirage.

He could only imagine how his lover was fairing without him and none of the scenarios he played up were any good. All of them involved Jazz, of what that wretchedly clever saboteur could do to hurt such a soft and easy going mech. He very much had the suspicion that he would go back to Iacon and find nothing waiting for him. It twisted his ember to think about, sent a worry turbo-rat eating at the edges of his mind, threatening to escape and cause havoc.

Slowly he worked his way to the bottom of the large ridgeline he had been on top of, taking zigzagging patterns back down, overextending the struts of his legs more than a few times, along with painfully twisting muscle cables. It was no easy task with the dark that loomed around him and Hound only had his infrared to go by, not much use in the cold hills with the cold around him and the cold in his ember. It took hours, his irritation at himself growing substantially at the fact that everything seemed so much harder than it should have been.

Breathing seemed harder, thinking was hard, walking was even worse.

Too much time alone with radio silence. As much of a introverted and quiet mech that he was, he also had the craving for company, for talk, for a warm touch.

When he reached the bottom, which, notably, was covered with a type of slimy mineral that made even the simplest steps forward difficult, he was quite ready to recharge for the night.

With the frosty night air on his back, Hound padded onwards between a narrow pass, to his right was a drop off that disappeared into the depths of Cybertron. He didn't want to know how far it was to the bottom, only knew that it was more than enough to kill a mech if he were to fall.

Soon the jutting and obtrusive structures began to narrow, giving way to sharp shoots of hills, their long and narrowed tips seeming to reach up to the stars. They were beautiful, Hound would admit that. Even here among this deathly desuetude place that no one wandered but him, they appeared to have some sort of life, purpose. After looking for a little while, he found an appropriate nook among one of them, a covey of circular piles of metal surrounding a flat spot while a spire of metal protected him from the weathers above.

Shivering, even in his thick and upgraded military armor, he drew a heater out and flipped the switch on with worn and rough digits, riddled with small dents and scratches, his joints feeling rather stiff in the chill air. Soon a warm orange glow filled the roomy crevice he had picked, and Hound drew himself closer, bringing his hands close to the small metal device, his fingers drumming quickly on the metal jacket to gauge how warm it was. Half the time it didn't work, other times it would overheat. Thankfully, all it required was a little solar recharge and it would work for hours.

Warmth started to flood through him, and with it, his temperament started to calm. Sliding back by using his hands to propel himself, he leaned heavily against a chunk of scrap, not minding the piece that was biting painfully into his back. It was nice to relax, to sit down and not have to worry about enemies.

More than a few Junkers roamed the hills, mechs that would kill and collect parts to sell on the black market, and as Hound had found several weeks ago, there were also cannibals in the hidden holes and caves within the hills. It didn't matter if it was recycled energon. It was energy, simple as that, and if they needed it, they would do their best to get it, even if that included drinking from another mech's neck tubing as they died. Those were the dangerous ones. The risk takers. Not necessarily unintelligent either, though Hound learned that they didn't have sophisticated weaponry.

Thank the lucky stars for that, he thought wryly.

His large digits pawed restlessly at his thighs while his torso muscle cables slowly began to relax. The only thing that would make this better was that of his lover Mirage, though, he really didn't wish this situation upon him either.

Besides, with the disaster in which he had left his lover, he wasn't sure if Mirage would accept him back with welcoming arms. If Mirage was in any condition to welcome him back.

"Mirage," he finally spoke, his own voice scaring himself with how hoarse and unused it was. There was no need. He didn't fancy himself as someone who needed to talk to himself when there was no one else around. Hound could think to himself far better than speaking.

Dull red optics shut off, the optical lens covers scratched with several fine little cuts, the results of high winds and the slightest flickers of rust that traveled along when it gusted. Even with his optics off Hound knew there was an orange glow to the south of the hills, the razing of Crystal City in its final stages, or he hoped. The sooner the city fell, the sooner he was allowed to return to Iacon and to Mirage.

Why did he always seem to be thinking of Mirage?

Love, he supposed. Yes, he truly believed that he was in love with him, that he never wanted another besides him.

Hound flicked his red optics back on, a dull whimpering moan of loss stopping dead in his throat. He drew a hand up, rubbing at his optics and then the dermal metal of his cheeks, then wiped a hand over his face, trying to sooth the emotional itch that buried itself into too many places.

Moments passed and he stared out from between his digits as he kept his hand clasped over his face, lips drawing down into a frown. He wanted to rage, to yell, to punch something, but, such things were for petulant younglings, and yelling would do him no good, possibly attract attention at that.

An anguished moan spilled out of his vocalizer, his fingers twitching as he lowered them back to his lap, starting to idly paw again.

"It's not fair," he spoke again, voice low and gravely, sounding like a raw growl. Of all the professions to pick, he had been attracted to the most painstakingly lonely one.

Pursing his lips, Hound drew out a cloth and began cleaning the accumulation of gunk from his joints.

To his arm he went first, wedging the cloth in between the thick slats of his armor, pressing the cloth in as far as he could because his fingers were too large. Swiping the material back and forth as best he could, Hound could feel a perverse flare of pleasure shoot through his long untouched circuitry.

His lips, which had the slightest mar of a cut on them, twitched in an unexplainable feel of need.

Hound sighed, his optics carefully scanning over the night surroundings around the little enclave he had found himself in.

A silver colored glossa flicked out and he licked at his lips, letting his cpu wander again.

"Mirage. . . if you knew how much I missed you I'm sure you'd laugh. . ." he murmured in that quiet tone he nearly always spoke in, then began to wonder why he was talking to himself so much. Someday, hopefully soon, he would be back in among peers, and his lover.

But, he couldn't hold back the urges that had slowly been developing in his mind for the last several weeks of his pained and forlorn existence.

With a sharp grunt of discontentment he shifted as the pain in his back became uncomfortable and sought out a new spot among the roughly hewn pieces and settled down in front of one that was much smoother and sloping, even and weatherworn from the constant acid rain melting it away time after time.

He couldn't take it anymore, he had to see Mirage.

A soft humming noise filled the small nook – his hardlight hologram generator warming up. Once it was heated enough it quit making noise, and as Hound flicked his optics up, he nearly gasped as he saw the beauty of his mate in front of him.

Mirage moved closer to him, plating now colored blue and white rather than the black that had adorned several parts of his frame before, and as Hound looked upon him he decided that he liked the whitish ivory color much better than the black. It made him look more youthful, softer, and it drew Hound's attention to the litheness of his hips, of how slender and innocent he was. His red optics flickered upwards. Mirage's gilded optics had no life in them and he wondered if it was perhaps a premonition. . .

The clone of his lover drew closer, easily sliding onto the receptive pose Hound had arranged his legs into but didn't smile in that coy little way the real one would have. Instead, this Mirage's expression was eerily blank and as Hound moved his helm that short ways forward, he was surprised that the texture of Mirage's lips was nearly the same. A large hand came to rest on the noblemech's chassis – the clone's- he vehemently reminded himself, and he gently rubbed with the pad of his thumb, reveling in the feel and the weight on his lap.

How sad. He had become so attached to Mirage that he couldn't even get off without his image.

For its part, the clone's lips worked against his, reciprocating, but Hound didn't allow himself to go so far as to attempt to stimulate the hard light anymore than a few swipes of his digits upon its chassis. After all, it was merely an image with weight and texture, not real or living in any way, nor did it have feelings or the need to be aroused, a perfect outlet for his needy lusts.

Several moments were spent feeling Mirage's lips against his, his optics nearly off as the clone's hand went to Hound's plate, its delicate digits drawing over rough and worn metal. It was teasing and just barely there, and Hound couldn't help but give a hoarse moan, his hands drawing up to rest lightly on the mech's shoulders. It was convoluted pleasure without the real Mirage.

Soon, the clone stood, his blue plate seeming to shine a deep and sullied green in the orange lighting, and Hound watched closely as the clone opened his plate to reveal a valve and spike housing. Noticeably, there were not any lubricants, something that wasn't possible with hard lights.

"Looks like you could use some lube, Mirage," Hound murmured in a husky whisper, teasing himself about this entire situation, his optics affixed on the second opening.

Truly, if he had wanted, it would've been only too easy to travel to one of the neighboring cities to find a cheap whore of either sex to satisfy his urges. In Kaon, there were many districts, though that was a bit out of the way, but even still, Praxus, which was closer and was already an Autobot territory would have been suitable as well.

But, no, that's what had gotten him in trouble with Mirage in the first place. Interfacing with a mech he shouldn't have.

So, self-service would have to do, hopefully, he would be able to feel Mirage's deliciously tight and sloppy wet valve clenching around his spike soon. There was nothing like driving into the smooth slickness of self created lubricant.

Then, the clone leaned over and teased his hands down his frame, his fingers going towards the opening of his valve. Hound watched as the hard light twisted two delicate fingers together and slipped them inside, beginning a steady motion of pumping, all only a short distance from the tracker's face.

It was beautiful, but lacked effect. Hound wanted to hear the noises of suction, wanted to see the streaming wetness of Mirage's valve, the smell, oh, how he longed for that, and of course, the taste of him, which no other mech he had ever had before could match. There was something distinctly tangy and almost exotic about the flavor of his lubricant that made Hound's spike throb.

The blank realization of the situation hit him again and Hound couldn't help but to chuckle again. But, he could make believe that it was real for a little while. No one was around to counter him.

Hound's hand reached into his subspace, where he searched around, brushing several things aside, broken knives, bits of a cracked blaster, even a few gems he had managed to find in his long journey of the hills. Large digits came across a tube, and he felt around it to see how much was still left.

"Hm," Hound muttered as one of Mirage's hands abandoned their venture and drew up along Hound's chassis, seeming to pull him with brute magnetic force, his spinal strut curling up as he arched. In his hand was a lube bottle, one that was suspiciously empty, and he wondered how much further his bad luck could get.

"Slag," he muttered, and then tossed it to the side with a flick of his wrist, somewhat dispassionately watching it skitter across a boulder and land on the other side with a dull noise. Another moan left him, starting to become heated at the actions, his interfacing components warming up in preparation for use. The powerful muscle cables in his legs contracted and he hauled himself up on the rock behind him, leaning the small of his back into it, and the spy easily fit into the expanse of his spread legs, his smooth hands moving up and down Hound's inner thighs.

Soon, he let the housing to his interfacing components slide open, revealing the head of his spike and the slight sheen of wetness in his valve underneath.

Hound trailed his hand down, feathering them lightly over his chassis and stomach plating, where he then traced a finger around his valve, then roughly plunged two digits into the wet warmth before he hesitated and decided to call all of it off. Mirage's face turned into a lifeless smile at his command, his aureate optics still lacking that lovely charm. . .

Roughly he fingered himself, scraping his worn digits against the slick walls of his valve, adding to the lubricant being produced, while he dimmed his optics at the noises of suction and the flares of pleasure from his long unused valve. For several moments he was slack-jawed as the pleasure flared through him, and eventually he took his optics off of the luminescent moon and back unto Mirage's form. The lithe mech's hands joined Hound's own, and the tracker sighed at the satisfaction of having something larger penetrate him. Mirage had never liked using his spike, perhaps to be occasionally sucked off, but otherwise he preferred Hound's spike inside of him.

Which was fine, in all actuality, but sometimes it was nice to play around a little differently every now and then. Several moments he worked along with the hard light, optics dimmed, and when the pleasure started to dull, he slowed their entwined digits and simply satisfied himself a bit longer by petting gently upon his valve walls, sometimes turning a sharp claw to scratch, which caused a thrill to run through him while he jerked his hips in surprise every time.

Lubricant coated his digits as he pulled them out, sticky and viscous, and he gazed at them for a few moments, then drew them up to smear it across his lips, breathing picking up at the smell and the feel. His sliver glossa darted out and he lapped it off, letting the taste linger upon his glossa. Then he moaned as he felt Mirage's mouth upon the housing of his spike, sucking on it, and it felt good even though there were no oral lubricants to make it even better.

"Mirage. . ." he murmured, optics flickering as he gazed upon the hard light, and he bucked his hips up into the noblemech's mouth as a flare of pleasure stirred through him, and he realized how rigid his spike felt from within its confines. The barest pinpricks of pleasure he could feel from that stiff piece, and as Mirage moved aside for him, he extended his spike out into the cool night air, which, combined with the light breeze, made him feel even harder.

Moving his thick digits, Hound brought a few fingers to his valve, pressing inside to lightly work until he had gathered enough lubricant, where he then slathered it over his proudly erect spike, his fingers bumping along the ridges as he worked. He gave a few mock thrusts up into his hands, his thumb and forefinger curled around his shaft as he slid his hand up and down, rocking with himself.

A small trickle of oral fluid escaped the corner of his lips as he moved, but he lapped up the wayward fluid with a quick glossa.

Groaning, Hound paused, then sat up with his legs carefully spread, making way for his spike, and his dark red optics gazed upon Mirage, his lips and pedes twitching in an irrepressible feel of want and brutal need. Sliding down, Hound gathered himself on his knees, then all fours, crawling slowly towards the hard light that had its appendages spread so invitingly. This time, Hound easily fit himself in between Mirage's legs, his rigid spike throbbing for satisfaction.

As he leaned down, his breath which was heavy with condensation flecked little patterns over Mirage's neck and flicked out his glossa to drift it across the cords on his lover's neck, then rolled his hips up and arched his back, allowing his spike to penetrate the valve he designed himself.

Hound moaned, then move himself up on his arms and locked the joints in them so he didn't touch much of Mirage's chassis, the pleasure coiling through his spike to send heady rushes to his cpu, making him feel alive in a way he hadn't in a very long time. He relaxed his shoulders and dropped his head, watching the way his spike slid in and out of Mirage's valve, the head of his spike just barely appearing every time he rolled his hips back, then burying itself fully back into the waiting valve. The lubricant dripped down and made it feel as if Mirage were wet for him and he concentrated on the thought of his lover, the way he looked so wanton and beautiful when he was being 'faced. It was such a treat to be able to watch the connection of their bodies in an intimate way, and Hound enjoyed the way the real Mirage moaned for his spike, cried out to be penetrated. . . such a wonderful and addicting thing.

Grunts escaped him with every thrust of his hips, the hard light beneath him shifting against the ground. Ah, so nice it was to have the ability to generate a hologram.

For several minutes he simply thrust forward into the moderately cool valve, same as the air temperature around. It was a trait that he couldn't fix, it made the hologram much harder to spot on infrared when it was the same temperature as everything around it. It wasn't all that uncomfortable, but the pleasure was starting to dangerously ebb every time his optics fell upon Mirage's vacant expression.

Revulsion hit him, and he pulled out abruptly, something that would have had any of his real partners crying out in pain.

It almost felt like it was nonconsensual.

How ridiculous.

Quick as could be, he drew himself up upon his knees and hauled the holo up by gripping harshly unto its collar ridge, then turned and slammed Mirage into one of the scraps of metal surrounding them, then drew up quickly from behind, pushing the mech down and splaying his legs with a strong grip, and buried his shining lubricant coated spike back into that bared valve. He was proving to himself that it wasn't real, that he would never do such a thing in real life.

Hound slammed his powerful hips up and pushed some of his weight onto the hard light's back at the same time, and was nearly alarmed as it pixilated and fizzed at the heavy contact points. Perfect.

"I can't look at your face," he whispered quietly.

A satisfied groan came from him every time the hologram pixilated, and he felt more lubricant dripping down his exposed valve to roll down his inner thighs, smearing around with each rolling thrust Hound made with his hips, driving himself deeper into the oddly pleasurable coolness.

Gray colored knees gritted into the rust-dirt below, and he was taken by surprise at the ferocity of his overload, causing him to halt and cry out, his voice echoing a small way into the night air as the transmetal fluid flooded from his spike, drenching the valve around him, which quickly streamed down and stained his thighs and interfacing array. With a hiss, he shifted his hips back and retracted his spike, unable to bear the feeling of Mirage's valve not clenching around him in a mutual overload. A softly uttered curse fell from his lip components, and he was overtaken with the strong and intense desire to bash the hard light's head in, though he didn't, only flicked it off before it wasted even more energon from his reserves.

It took the edge off, but had him craving for the real thing.


End file.
